


Lessons

by pink_pencil_girl



Category: Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Brief Corporal Punishment, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Nazis, Pre-Canon, References to antisemitism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-08 03:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14096484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_pencil_girl/pseuds/pink_pencil_girl
Summary: Tintin was very young when he discovered not everything there was to know about the world could be found in the pages of the newspaper. And the hardest lessons could only be learned one way: by living them. Series of one-shots, not in chronological order. Pre-series, World War II AU.





	1. The Promise

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a series of one-shots (there are three I currently plan on posting) all centered around my take on Tintin's past. It is, full disclosure, a somewhat unusual take. Of course all backstories are valid, but I departed from the norm of Tintin as an orphan. Not because I think there's anything wrong with that, but simply because in my heart I've always had a different idea. And I've always wanted to share it, in the form of a story.
> 
> I wrote this as backstory framework for a full-fledged multi-chapter about how Tintin became a reporter. Then I set it aside to work on other projects, and these little snippets have been wasting away in a half-forgotten folder ever since. But even if I don't end up finishing that story, I wanted to share some of the work that came out of it.
> 
> So. I've decided to post these glimpses into my version of Tintin's past. I do hope you enjoy.

_August 23rd, 1936_

**Neel, Belgium**

Tintin marched down the dirt road which led to his house. The air around him was thick, ripening with early afternoon as the sun approached its zenith. He breathed in the scent of vegetation and pollen, rising from the grasses and wildflowers which stretched over the surrounding fields. The farmland was punctuated by dark, wooded dells like fistfuls of wildness.

The straps of his school satchel dug into Tintin's shoulders. He gripped them with both hands, and pretended the groceries were vital supplies, the difference between life and death for his team of explorers.

"Miles from civilization, they happened upon a cache of non-perishables hidden by soldiers during the Great War," he narrated in his newsreel-announcer voice. "Tinned beans and coffee, and by some miracle, a pound of sugar. The men knew this was a sign that they must keep on, through the brutal landscape of the Siberian tundra."

The thought of the far north reminded Tintin who, in reality, funded this particular expedition. Theon's paycheque had arrived the day before, postmarked by the mail service of the Baltic Sea. This meant that, some weeks ago, the freighter on which Tintin's stepfather worked had stopped somewhere along the serrated edge of the Swedish or Finnish coastline.

Tintin adopted the swagger of the expedition leader. "Take heart, boys," he addressed his weary team. "We'll make it to Finland within the week, where a merchant ship will pick us up and take us home."

He hummed to himself, still half in his game, as he turned onto the gravelled drive that led to the cottage. The flower-studded vines twisting up the front porch made a beautiful picture, Tintin thought, and he resolved to suggest that his mother could paint them. It had been a while since she'd painted anything.

Tintin climbed the front stoop and clattered through the entryway, flinging his bag off his shoulders.

"I'm back!" He dragged his satchel by the strap, down the corridor and into the kitchen, where he found his mother standing over the sink. "Here I am." He grinned. "With enough food to last us until the next Ice Age."

He paused, and his smile faded. His mother hadn't turned around. Tintin drew closer, and noticed her stillness, the slight tremble in her hands. Her fingers tightened their grip on the edge of the sink. She slumped forwards, and her hair cascaded down to cover her face, exposing the ginger freckles on her neck.

"Maman." Tintin spoke through an exhale. "Are you alright?"

Joi turned around, too quickly, and grabbed for the counter with one hand. The other held onto her stomach, which swung with the sudden movement, straining against the loose fabric of her dress. Pale grey eyes rested on Tintin without seeing him, her brow wrinkling.

"Oh-" She shook her head. "Hello, _mon coeur._ I'm sorry. I'm fine, just fine."

Her voice was strange and distant, airier than usual. Tintin saw the rigid line of her shoulders, as if braced against a storm, and he heard what she wasn't saying. _It must be bad today,_ he thought.

He held out his satchel. "I brought the groceries."

"Yes, darling, thank you." She gave him a small smile, and her eyes fluttered shut. She inhaled through her nose. "I need to sit down for a moment," she breathed out. "If you could put the meat into the icebox-"

He nodded, "of course, Maman," and offered a smile of his own. He followed as far as the door that led into the parlour. Only after his mother had settled into the couch, legs splayed to accommodate her stomach, did Tintin return to unload the bag.

The baby was due in less than a week. _Not soon enough,_ Tintin thought, and chewed his lower lip. He tucked the meat into the icebox, and the potatoes into the hollow under the floorboards of the pantry, and tried to recall her previous pregnancies with Emmeline and Sibyla. He didn't remember them being anything like this.

A cry started up in the nursery above, as if on cue. Tintin recognised Sibyla's pure, almost melodic tone. Two-year-old Emmeline joined in, not one to be left out of anything.

Tintin skidded through the parlour door, and found his mother struggling to get up. He raised his hands. "Don't you think of moving, Maman." He didn't wait to hear any argument from her, darting through the parlour and up the stairs.

Emmeline quieted as soon as Tintin entered the room. She was sitting on the floor with her blanket discarded behind her, having crawled over the brass rail of her bed. She clutched a cloth doll, and watched as her brother went to Sibyla's crib.

"Sibbie, Sibbie, _shhh."_ He lifted her into his arms. "Hush, little prophetess. You must have had some horrible visions in your dreams, hm?"

She stopped mid-wail and opened her eyes, looking up at him. Tiny mouth open and puckered, listening to his voice. The half-darkness thinned in the light of her sudden open grin, hands grasping, reaching for Tintin's tuft of hair. He bent his head and let her grab it, to hear her giggle.

"There, you see." He lifted his head, and smiled. "Everything's perfectly alright."

Tintin looked down to find Emmeline clinging to his trousers.

"Let's go downstairs, the three of us, and see Maman, shall we? She needs some cheering up." He shifted Sibyla so that he could hold her against his shoulder with one arm, and used the other to take Emmeline's hand. "You've gotten too big for me to carry you, Mel," he told her. She gave him a proud smile.

Once they reached the bottom of the stairs Emmeline let go of Tintin's hand, to run ahead into the parlour. He followed her in.

The air coated his skin like syrup, dense and sweet. Tendrils of honeysuckle scent reached in the open windows, but no breeze. The room was horribly still.

Joi had fallen back against the couch, hair splayed around her head. It shone red and gold in the sunlight cast through the window. Tintin drew nearer, and heard her gasping for breath through parted lips. A flush bloomed in her neck and cheeks, where strands of hair caught in fine dewdrops of sweat.

Tintin set Sibyla down onto the floor. It took him a moment, staring at his mother, to remember to breathe.

"Maman," he whispered.

Her hand hung limp from her arm, draped over the side of the couch. He cupped it in his own, pressed against his chest, and felt her warmth through his shirt. "Maman, wake up."

She didn't stir.

Tintin swallowed through a dry throat. He reached for her face, and touched her brow, gentle as he could. He drew his hand back. Her skin was almost too hot to touch.

The room emptied of air. Tintin swayed, and dropped to his knees. He didn't notice Emmeline beside him until she tried to climb onto the couch.

"Maman. Up. I want come up."

Tintin put a hand on his sister's head. "No, no. She's sick, Mel."

Emmeline looked at him, then back to her mother. "Maman?"

She groaned. Tintin held his breath, and her hand in his. She tossed her head to one side, but didn't open her eyes.

"I'm afraid Maman is very sick," he said, quiet, and released his breath.

His body was disconnected, not his own, as he stood unsteadily and lifted Sibyla up from the rug. He took Emmeline's hand in his and led them into the kitchen, where he deposited the one-year-old into her feeding chair, and gave her a spoon covered in honey to keep her occupied. He tried to offer the same to Emmeline.

"No. Don't want." She stamped her foot, arms crossed. "I want Maman," her voice rose, threatening tears.

"I know, I know." Tintin tossed the honeyed spoon into the sink. He pulled down a clean rag from the cupboard, dampening it with water from the jug kept in the icebox. He turned back to Emmeline, and knelt to meet her eyes.

"Maman needs our help now, Mel," he said, voice strained, yet determined. "So you must be quiet. You must not cry. Do you understand?"

Emmeline stared at him, and said nothing. Tintin rose and took the cloth into the parlour, letting his little sister follow behind.

The cool cloth seemed to help, at first. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and her eyes fluttered half-open. They brushed over Tintin before closing again.

"Maman?" He pressed the cloth to her cheek. "Can you hear me?"

She opened her eyes wider, yet struggled to see him, as if through fog. Her clouded stare chilled Tintin's blood. "Remy?" she breathed.

Tintin drew back, blinking at the strange name. "No, Maman." He leaned towards her, to break through the veil between them. "It's me, Tintin. Augustin," he added, though she never called him by his first name.

"No, no." His mother shook her head, too quickly, and had to close her eyes again. With sudden fire, she spat, "I told you to leave us alone."

Tintin brushed a copper curl from her eyes, and laid the cloth over her brow. _She's hallucinating,_ he thought, recalling a list of fever symptoms he'd read before. "Shh," he soothed. "It's alright, Maman."

She swallowed, and tore a ragged breath. "Don't you… don't you try to take him away." Her voice grew hoarse, unravelling. "You have no right. He's mine, my baby-"

"Hush now, it's alright," Tintin said again, trying to believe it. "No one is going to take the baby." He pretended the situation was reversed, and spoke as she would have. "I'm here. I'll take care of you," he promised.

If she heard him, she gave no sign. Tintin turned the cloth over, to its un-warmed side, and stood back up.

For a long moment he didn't move, staring down at the limp form of his mother on the couch. Her rounded stomach rose and fell, as her breath shook the fragile cage of her chest. Tintin shut his eyes. _Think,_ he told himself, _think._

But the problem was not that he couldn't think. The problem was he thought too much. Disease symptoms and names of medicinal herbs and emergency first-aid treatments pelted him like raindrops and vanished on impact. He forced his mind to slow, and focus on the facts.

Fact: his mother had a fever. Fact: she was nearly nine months pregnant. Tintin had read plenty of manuals written by great outdoorsmen about how to treat hypothermia on mountaintops and heat stroke in deserts and not a single one of them said anything about treating fever in a pregnant woman. Because pregnant women didn't climb mountains or traverse deserts.

He couldn't take care of her. He didn't know how.

"Tintin…" Emmeline tugged at the hem of his shirt. Her dark eyes glistened. "What's wrong with Maman?"

Tintin crouched and cupped her face in one hand, smoothing her furrowed brow. "I don't know." He forced a deep breath. "I have to go into the village, and find help."

"No." Emmeline grabbed his hand in both of hers. "No, no, _no!"_

"Mel, I don't want to." Her hands tugged at him, small yet insistent, weakening his voice. "But there's no one else to go."

Tintin felt heavy as he stood back up, and set his jaw.

He shut his sisters in their bedroom, assuring them he'd be back as soon as he could, thought he doubted Emmeline heard him through her wails. Tintin locked their door behind him, knowing they were safer that way.

He started running on the stairs, and didn't stop, not even to glance at his mother before he shot through the front door. Clouds of dust rose in his wake along the dirt road, through the bright, oversaturated afternoon, all the way into the village. He tried not to think beyond the pulse of his feet underneath him.

The sun was a whip against his neck and heels, mocking, branding him. With every step, every second, the heat burned Tintin's promise to his mother into the back of his neck.

 

A week later, after Joi came home from the hospital with Alice Marie Mattheus, a tiny yet healthy baby girl, Tintin made a curious discovery. That terror, once passed, had a corrosive effect on memory. It seemed to him it should be the opposite.

He remembered that afternoon as a series of facts, as if he'd watched it happen to someone else. Upon reaching the village, he'd found Dr. Vermote, only to be told to run straight back home and wait for the ambulance. He'd been there when they took his mother away, to the hospital in Genk. He'd lied, telling the driver that his father would be home soon. He knew it had happened. He didn't remember living it.

When he told his mother the story later, at last convincing her they must have a telephone installed in the house, Tintin left out the only part he did remember.

After watching the ambulance until he could no longer see it, he had climbed the stairs to his sisters' bedroom. Emmeline met him at the door with high-pitched fury, demanding their mother. Tintin had no reassurance to give her. He let her pull him to his knees, her fists in his shirt, crying into his shoulder. Sibyla began to howl. Tintin fought the tears until he couldn't anymore.

He remembered lying on the floor with his baby sisters. Lost, left for dead in the Siberian tundra. It would be the last time Tintin allowed himself to cry in front of anyone for nearly a decade to come, and neither Emmeline nor Sibyla would remember it. It would be the last time he felt younger than his nine years, sobbing until he could barely breathe, until the darkness of the room consumed him and the three of them fell fast asleep.

That was what he remembered. That was how he learned what it meant to be powerless, and it was a feeling far worse than fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone might be wondering, Tintin's home village of Neel is entirely fictional. Its closest town, Genk, is real, and located in the province of Limburg in East Flanders.
> 
> So! While you're here, please consider dropping a line in the box down below, to tell me what you thought. Feedback, especially constructive criticism, is the wind beneath my wings. I'm editing and finishing up the 2nd and 3rd of this series, and I'll post the next one as soon as I've deemed it fit for general consumption. If you're interested in reading it, please let me know in a comment, or by hitting kudos. Hope to see you in the next installment!


	2. The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry it took me a bit longer than I expected to get this polished up, but I hope that means it is all the more fit for your reading enjoyment.
> 
> I'd like to take this opportunity to reiterate that these are not in chronological order. This takes place two years before "The Promise."
> 
>  **Content warning:** This one-shot contains violence, blood (but no major physical injuries), and corporal punishment (not described in detail.) I deeply apologize for failing to include this cw when first posting the chapter, and to anyone who may have been harmed as a result. I know I can't undo what's been done, but for what it's worth I promise I will try my hardest not to let this ever happen again.

_September 12th, 1934_

**Genk, Belgium**

Tintin watched the flurry of activity around him, wide-eyed.

At midday, the brick-walled courtyard of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour Primary School was smothered by a cloud of Flemish Dutch, overlapping insults and greetings. A pair of head boys stood at the gates, permitting those who lived in town to go home for lunch. The rest had divided themselves in packs across the uneven cobblestones, pulling chocolate, fruit and bread from their satchels, usually in that order.

Tintin clutched the strap of his satchel, standing alone.

So far, his first day of school had not gone at all like he'd expected. He'd come prepared, with two sharpened pencils that his mother had tucked into the breast pocket of his uniform when kissing him goodbye. But he hadn't even gotten to use them. Sister Albertine, distracted and irritable, had dismissed his pleas to be given something to read. She didn't believe him when he insisted he already knew how.

So he'd spent the entire morning reviewing the sounds of the alphabet, droning in unison with the rest of his second year class. Tintin had started to wish his mother had never received that letter from the government, explaining that Tintin couldn't miss another year. That Joi had to send him to school, or face charges.

Tintin wound his way through the courtyard, and cast around for neutral territory. His eyes landed on a pair of boys sitting against a wall, talking animatedly over the pages of a large hard-cover book.

A spark lit in Tintin's chest. He pulled out the Jules Verne novel he'd brought with him, which he'd only just begun: _The Mysterious Island._ He clutched it in both hands, and moved closer to the pair.

"Please, don't-" a half-strangled voice reached Tintin's ears. "Give it back, please-"

Laughter rose up, drowning out the rest. Tintin turned, brow knit, straining to make sense of the commotion in the far corner of the courtyard.

A half dozen scruffy-looking boys were bunched around a lone figure, cowering on the ground. One of them rifling through a satchel, to pull out an apple with a wolf-like grin. They began tossing it back and forth, cackling.

Tintin froze. A strange and sudden heat flushed through him. The next moment he was walking over, barely aware of what he was doing, slipping into the circle. The next time one of them threw the apple into the air, he reached up, and caught it.

A stunned silence fell. A dozen eyes threatened, as if to slice him to ribbons, but Tintin wasn't looking at them. He crouched down, and handed the apple back to its proper owner. Small and slight like him, with dark hair that fell over his eyes.

"Hello. I'm Tintin." He offered a smile. "What's your name?"

The boy wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. "Émile," he whispered.

"Hey."

Tintin looked up. One of the thieves glared down at him, shoulders cocked with the air of a leader. "What d'you think you're doing?" he demanded.

Tintin stood back up. "You stole his apple." He swallowed. "I was giving it back."

The leader stepped closer. He was made of hard lines and angles, shirt untucked, school tie knotted around his head.

"We were just playing a game." He smirked. "It's called Lords and Peasants. The Peasants have to give the Lords whatever we want, because we own all the land."

A shorter boy sporting a halo of frizzy curls, whom Tintin recognized from his own class, sidled up next to the leader. "Which will you be?" He tilted his head. "A Lord, or a Peasant?"

"Neither." Tintin lifted his chin, in a burst of inspiration. "I'll be a Knight."

A few boys who'd stopped to watch the altercation perked up at this. They drew closer.

"I want to be a Knight, too," one piped up.

"Can I be a Knight?"

The leader of the 'Lords' spoke over them. "You can't be a Knight," he scoffed, eyeing Tintin down his nose. "Knights are big and strong and carry a sword. You're the same size as my baby sister, and you don't have anything but a stupid book."

"Yeah, which he can't even read," the curly-haired boy cut in, mouth twisted with malice. "He's in my class, but he didn't go to school last year. His _maman_ didn't send him, 'cause he's a baby."

"That's not why," Tintin spat, cheeks hot. "She didn't know there was a law. And I can too read."

"Liar, liar," the curly-haired boy sang. "He's a baby _and_ a liar."

The leader held up a hand, calling for silence. "Alright, then." He gave Tintin a dangerous grin. "If he wants to be a Knight, let him try. Let's settle it with a duel."

Tintin's pulse picked up pace. He stepped back. "I… I don't want to duel anyone."

"Hah!" The curly-haired boy crossed his arms. "So you're a coward, too."

Tintin had half-turned away. He stopped. The words stuck in his chest, and spread heavy through him. He turned back around. One hand clutched his book, the other made a fist.

"I'm not a coward." He laid the words down, quiet and cold.

"Good." The leader smiled with only half his mouth. "Since I'm the King, I decide who duels who." He scanned the group gathered in his shadow, and pointed at a heavyset boy with empty eyes. "Lukas. You'll duel the baby."

Tintin didn't move. He didn't have to, as the boys shifted around him, chatter and taunts filling his ears, until he and Lukas faced each other, surrounded by a ring of spectators. Encircled by keen, shining eyes, bright as new coins, mouths open and spitting at Tintin.

"Come on," someone jeered. "Drop the book and fight!"

Émile jostled among them, brow pinched, mouth open but saying nothing. Their eyes met. Tintin looked away, just as Lukas made the first move, fist sliding in a slow arc.

Tintin jerked sideways. Lukas stumbled as his punch struck air, allowing Tintin the opportunity to scramble around him, before the boy righted himself and turned around. Tintin moved with him. He kept just behind his opponent, and the two spun in a circle.

It could have been plucked straight from a Charlie Chaplin skit. Their audience howled with laughter.

But Lukas caught on. He changed direction, and Tintin couldn't move quick enough to avoid the inevitable. His shoulders were caught in meaty fingers.

With a growl, Lukas threw Tintin to the ground. His elbow hit the pavement first, then the back of his head. Off-white sky filled his vision, embellished with flashes of brilliant light, persisting even when he shut his eyes.

He opened them to find Lukas sitting on his chest, round face pinched into a scowl. The boy pulled his fist back.

He slammed it down onto the hard cover of the Jules Verne novel. Tintin blinked, surprised at how quickly he'd lifted the book to cover his face. He heard a whine, and peered around the book to find Lukas cradling his sore fist with his other hand.

The spectators erupted into laughter again, cheering Tintin on. Then a voice scratched over the rest.

"He can't use the book. That's cheating!"

This started a debate about the rules, and everyone strove to make their opinions heard at once. Tintin lowered _The Mysterious Island,_ risking a glance at the half of the crowd now occupied with yelling at each other. The King and another boy looked as if they might start fighting themselves.

"Tintin!" Émile's voice cut through the roar, as he squeezed himself through the crush of boys, eyes bright in Tintin's. "Watch out-"

A blow landed on his chin, clumsy, yet hard enough to spark another bright flash of pain. Tintin swallowed a yelp, and blinked. Lukas scowled down at him, winding up his arm to try again.

Panic set Tintin's whole body alight. He clenched his jaw, and swung the book upwards, as hard as he could.

The edge of the cover caught Lukas by the chin. His teeth met at an odd angle, with a clack. The boy covered his chin and screamed.

But he didn't get up. Instead, he launched himself forwards, his scream scraping low, into a growl. He wrapped his fingers around Tintin's throat.

The clamour around them hit a fever-pitch. "He'll kill him! He's really gonna kill him!"

Tintin squirmed and kicked, gasping, to no avail. The sky brightened, blurring out the edges of his vision. Again he pushed the book upwards, straight into his opponent's face. It connected with a satisfying 'thud.'

Lukas screeched and released him, hands flying to his nose. At last, Tintin wriggled free. He tore sweet, ragged breath into his lungs, as he struggled to his feet.

But Lukas wasn't done. He lunged forwards, on his knees. Tintin sidestepped easily. He let Lukas throw himself off balance, before he swung the book down, this time hitting the boy on the ear.

Lukas howled. Shouting voices pushed in from all sides. Inside Tintin's head, the roar blocked out everything, a crush of heat down the back of his neck. He clenched his teeth, and swung the book down again. It caught Lukas squarely on his other ear.

He clamped his hands over the sides of his head. His wail rose like a siren, to fill the wide, silent sky above. Blood poured from his nose, dripping down his chin, making bubbles on his lips.

Tintin stumbled backwards, jaw slack. The book fell from his hands. It seemed to him that it fell slowly, and hit the pavement without making a sound.

 _"Schijt!"_ One of the older boys swore. "You broke his face. You broke him."

Faces pressed in around Tintin, hands reaching out to tug at his jumper.

"You'll be in so much trouble."

"He's doomed."

"Yeah, but he won the duel!"

The King appeared in front of him, wearing a sneer. "Now you're a real Knight."

Tintin pushed past him. The ground shifted beneath his feet, but he kept walking, wrenching himself out from the crowd.

"Hey," someone called after him, "you can't leave the game."

He stopped, his back to the others, and bent in half, gasping for breath. He burned, blood rushing too close to the surface of his skin. It sloshed up the sides of him, until he half-expected a stream of red to rocket out his throat when he coughed.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Tintin looked up into Émile's narrow, tanned face.

"Are you alright?" he offered shyly, in French, having detected the faint trace of Wallonia in Tintin's accent from his mother.

Before Tintin could answer, Émile's eyes shifted past him, and flew wide. He shrank back, murmuring, "I'm sorry."

A shadow cooled the air above Tintin's head. He straightened, and his eyes followed a column of black robes, all the way up into the face of the Reverend Father Addens.

Dark, deep-set eyes lanced through Tintin's, before he turned to survey the courtyard. Half of the boys were clustered around Lukas, arguing over how near he was to death, while Lukas clutched his face and moaned.

"Silence!"

The boys scattered, voices dropping to a low hum. Even the King and his Lords moved to the far wall of the courtyard, to watch from a safe distance.

Only Lukas and Tintin stayed where they were. Lukas let out a whine, muffled in the fabric of his jumper, which he'd pulled up to press against his nose. He glared at Tintin, watery eyes bright with hate.

"Well, then," sighed Father Addens, standing over Lukas. "Come on now. Stand up. Who did this to you?"

Lukas stood, and pointed a bloodied finger towards Tintin. "Him. The little one. He hit me with his book, sir." He lowered his jumper to display the damage, and touched his nose. "I think it's broken," he sniffed.

Father Addens said nothing. He took his time collecting the book from the ground, brushing off the cover. He held _The Mysterious Island_ by its binding, and fixed his eyes on Tintin. "What have you to say in your defence?"

Silence sank into the courtyard, etching deep into the headmaster's wrinkled face. It outlined the silhouettes of the boys gathered around, watching.

"It's true, sir." Tintin looked up at Father Addens. He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. "I hit Lukas to stop him from hitting me."

The Reverend Father stared him down, with a face like stone. Tintin didn't dare even breathe.

"You're Augustin Mattheus, the new second year student."

Tintin nodded.

Father Addens returned it, mouth puckered into a frown. "Sister Albertine informed me of your impertinence in her class this morning. It seems you are intent on causing trouble."

"No," Tintin blurted, shaking his head. "I'm not a troublemaker, sir, I swear. They made me fight. I didn't want to." He swallowed, trying to cover the cracks in his voice. "I didn't want to," he said again.

"Silence," Father Addens hissed. "I didn't ask for an explanation. I ask that you listen, and listen well. We will not tolerate your outbursts here."

Tintin fell silent. He heaved sharp breaths in and out of his nose, and glared at the hem of the headmaster's robes. He felt wild, frayed at the edges, his vision blurred with tears. He could see blood on the ground where Lukas had knelt. Blood that Tintin had caused. It darkened against the pavement, seeping into its pores.

The headmaster didn't lift his eyes from Tintin, as he called out to one of the two nuns who'd stolen into the courtyard to attend to Lukas.

"Sister Katrina."

The woman turned to Father Addens, eyes wide, shining in her young face.

"Bring me my rod."

Tintin met Sister Katrina's gaze. He felt her pity, a jolt to his chest. She bobbed her head to the headmaster, and turned back to help her Sister usher Lukas inside, no doubt taking him to the infirmary. His bloody nose had stopped, but he looked a sight, still whimpering.

"Augustin." Father Addens' voice struck, unyielding. "Now, I'm afraid, you must face the consequences of your actions. Take off your jumper."

Tintin obeyed. He felt hollowed out, unable to think past the orders he was given. Father Addens told him to turn around, and march to the flagpole in the centre of the courtyard.

He wrapped his hands around the pole, and took his punishment, telling himself that he deserved it. He had caused pain, and must receive it in turn. He muffled his cries into whimpers in his mouth.

Over his head, the flag rippled, its colours stark against the pale sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was compelled to write an exploration of Tintin's first experience with violence and this was what came of it. Please share any and all feedback you may have (shout out to tad for their lovely comment last chapter) or hit kudos if you liked it!
> 
> Real talk: I'm pretty new to the one-shot format and I'm not sure if I'm really suited for it. My heart lies with multi-chapters. But I'm going to finish out what I planned to post of this series, because I think it's a good exercise for me, and then I suppose we'll see what happens next! (I'm still chewing on my 'how Tintin became a reporter' multi-chapter concept, and I would love to bring it to life someday soon.)
> 
> So until we meet again, please drop a comment or kudos, and earn my undying devotion and love. Stay awesome!


	3. The Invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm so excited to post this! But first, I want to give a brief yet warm thanks to those who have left kudos. You are lovely and I do hope you like this one. It's the first to really bring the WWII element to the fore, so I pulled from a lot of research I've done to try and make it as realistic (within reason, this being fanfiction after all) and respectful as possible. I'd be so grateful to hear how well I managed.
> 
>  **content warning:** This one-shot contains WWII Nazis and references to antisemitism.

_May 17th, 1940_

His mother had wanted to keep him at home.

That morning, as Tintin dressed in his school uniform, Joi had clung to his doorframe, watching him. _"Mon ange,_ it isn't safe," she said, again.

He knotted his tie around his collar, and tucked it into the neck of his cotton jumper. "I'm only going into the city, Maman."

He shot a glance at his radio sitting atop his desk, and wondered if he ought to check again for any news. He preferred to rely on the official broadcasts rather than the gossip in Neel, but for two days straight his set had picked up nothing but static, in spite of his attempts to boost the receiver.

Joi worried her lip with her teeth. "Perhaps we should have left when the others did. The church was so empty yesterday..."

"How would we have managed that?" Tintin slung his school satchel over one shoulder. "We don't have a car, or even a horse and cart. The twins are too young to walk." He lowered his voice, aware that all five of his half-siblings were still asleep down the hall. "And we have nowhere to go."

Joi dropped her eyes to the floor. _"Oui, c'est vrai,"_ she said, soft, distracted. "You're right, darling."

Tintin crossed to the doorway, and stopped. "We don't know when the Germans will arrive. Or if they ever will," he said, with as much conviction as he could muster.

Joi's eyes met his. "In the village, everyone's saying they're close," she whispered.

Tintin swallowed. He couldn't bear it, the uncertainty twining around his gut, tightening with every moment he was stuck there, unable to find out what was happening.

He gave his mother a smile. "At the first sign of danger, I'll turn around and come right back."

Joi nodded, hands clasped under her throat. She accepted the kiss which Tintin pressed to her cheek, and didn't raise another word of protest as he flew down the stairs and out the door.

He could not explain, not even to himself, why he had to be in Genk that morning. It was certainly not to go to school, as he doubted any semblance of lessons would be taking place. His uniform served as an excuse, should anyone ask where he was going.

The village lay empty, unreal, like the set of a film. A hollow quiet smothered the main road. Strangely, the bus arrived on time, though without any of its usual morning passengers. The driver, Mr. Coppens, didn't look up as Tintin climbed aboard. The normalcy of it all strained at the edges, a thin veneer stretched over the world.

Halfway to the city, it began to crack.

Tintin saw dots moving in the far distance, people on the road ahead. Details pencilled in as the horde drew nearer, and cleaved the writhing mass into individual figures. Some were running, others couldn't, weighed down with belongings, pushing bicycles or carts piled high with boxes and birdcages. Women clutched babies to their chests. One elderly man tried to lead a panicked horse. Another sobbed like a child, cradling an urn in his arms.

Mr. Coppens jerked the brake, to stop in the middle of the road. _"Allemachtig,"_ he muttered. "I'll have to turn around." He turned and looked at Tintin, as if seeing him for the first time. "I'm taking you back to Neel, boy."

"No," Tintin burst, and shot to his feet. _'The first sign of danger'_ weighed on his tongue. He swallowed it. "No, _dank u._ I'll get off here."

Mr. Coppens blinked at him. He shrugged. "As you wish."

Tintin didn't give the man, or himself, a chance to think better of it. He stepped off the bus into the bright, sun-soaked morning. The noise struck first, a cacophony of howling, human and animal, warbled shouts and the whine of overloaded carts. Tintin looked into the faces bobbing past. Their terror pricked his skin.

A woman grabbed his arm. Tintin started, turning to face her. As soon as he did, she let go. "I'm sorry," she choked. "My son, I can't find him. You wear the same uniform-" She broke off, and staggered away.

Tintin tried to see past the flow of people fleeing the city, now thinned over the length of the road. But the faint outline of buildings, some three kilometres away, betrayed no sign of what had happened there.

Tintin started to run. Against his mother's wishes, against his better judgment.

He ran against the crowd all the way into Genk.

 

The streets were choked and hushed, lined with people as if for a parade. They stood in silence, clutching each other, some still in pyjamas and slippered feet. Heads stuck out of windows and doorways. On an apartment's front stoop, an old woman in a night robe held tight to a young boy's shoulders, shaking her head. Tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. Tintin passed them by, and didn't slow his pace.

He saw the trucks first, covered in dull green canvas, stopped farther down the main street. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to his eyes, and make sense of what he was seeing. Groups of men in grey-green uniforms, dozens of them, stalked down the centre of the road. They barged through doors and peered in windows. All with rifles in hand, aimed outwards and ready to fire.

From a window of the city hall hung an enormous red and white flag. It bore the black, crooked fingers of the swastika.

Tintin stopped in the middle of the street.

He stood with his mouth struck open, arms slack at his sides. Somewhere within him, so deep he hardly knew it himself, a weak hope flickered out. He had believed, in spite of everything, that Belgian or French or even British troops were somewhere nearby. Surely they wouldn't allow this to happen.

But they had.

It seemed somehow fitting, Tintin reflected, that wherever the Belgian army might be, his stepfather was among them. 'Too little, too late' was the man's specialty.

Tintin blinked away the heat pooling in his eyes. He clenched his jaw, and kept moving.

Going where, he had no idea. But he wasn't about to stand there and gape like a fish on a hook. His mind filled with static, a buzzing sort of warmth. He couldn't hear himself think, perhaps he wasn't thinking at all, nearly tripping over his own feet while his eyes tracked the neat, indifferent tide of uniformed men pouring into the city.

Under the direction of officers in long belted overcoats, a group of soldiers hung their flag in the front window of the mining offices. _There's the reason they wanted Genk,_ Tintin thought, _for the coal._

Before he knew why, or where, he was running again. He ran to shake the heaviness trickling down his limbs, the kind of panic known in nightmares. The soldiers didn't pay much attention to the undersized teenager in Catholic school uniform darting past them. Tintin felt the fight rise up his throat anyway. _Let them try and stop me._

A block away, he realised where he was going. The place in the back of his mind all along, perhaps since the moment he'd stepped off his front porch.

Tintin slowed as he neared the red-brick façade of the public library, and let out his breath. It looked the same as always. Unmoored from time and space, sparking the memory of all the many hours he'd spent there, breathing in its familiar smell, curled in a corner with books piled around him.

His feet quickened up the marble steps, skidding to a stop before the grand double doors of solid oak. He lifted a hand to the iron handle, and stopped. He pricked his ears. A murmur sent vibrations through the wood, so low and muffled that Tintin felt more than heard it.

His hand fell to his side, and he stepped back. He left the front entrance behind, stealing around to the alley beside the building. The side door led into the librarian's work room, he remembered. From there he could watch, unseen, whatever might be happening in the main area of the library.

The door was locked.

Tintin glanced upward, and his eyes lit on the fire escape. A series of wrought iron platforms punctuated the stairs that clung to the side of the building, the ladder tucked up underneath the lowest level. The black lattice taunted him, beyond his reach.

A dumpster stood against the wall beside him. Tintin shrugged off his satchel, dropping it to the ground. He looked up again at the first platform of the fire escape, then scrambled on top of the dumpster. The lid creaked beneath his weight, but didn't collapse. Tintin gauged the remaining distance, crouching deeper to wind his legs like springs.

He jumped, arms outstretched. His fingers met the metal bar with a painful jolt. After a moment of swinging back and forth, Tintin managed to pull himself up by his arms, and scramble over the rail. The platform protested his arrival with a shriek and a clatter of its brittle frame.

Tintin climbed the first set of stairs as quick and quiet as he could, up to the second platform. There was a window looking into the upper level, the point of exit in the case of fire. Tintin pushed against the glass. It didn't take much to persuade the ancient window latch to give away.

The second floor overlooked the first on all four sides, as a sort of balcony level. Without the usual lighting, shadows draped over the shelves, dense and viscous. Tintin crept towards the balcony's edge, as slow as he could bear. Voices spoke in low tones. Multiple sets of footsteps rang out over the stone floor, echoing upwards.

At the balcony's edge, Tintin dropped to a crouch.

A dozen men in uniforms of various stripes had established themselves in the level below. An older, white-haired man sat at the library's reception desk, his jacket agleam with insignias, the Iron Cross medallion glinting below his throat. Mrs. Speleers' little red lamp, the one she'd tied a blue ribbon on just for the cheery look of it, illuminated the papers spread before him.

Another officer stood in the centre of the lower level, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes followed several soldiers who moved with purpose between the shelves and the centre of the floor, arms full of books. One by one, they added to the pile which already half-covered the stonework at the heart of the building. The books landed belly-up, spines askew.

Tintin's legs wavered beneath him. He lowered his knees to the floor.

How many times had he walked over that stone, stopping to trace the inscription with his foot? The writing had almost vanished beneath the growing mountain of books, but Tintin knew it by heart, as if the words had been carved into his own chest.

 _Verba volant scripta manent._ 'Spoken, words fly; written, they remain.'

Tintin gripped the railing with both hands. He watched the soldiers present the books to their superior officer, sometimes with a low murmur, to elicit the man's nod of approval. At last Tintin made out what they were saying, and only because the German word sounded almost the same in Flemish Dutch: _"Jude."_

Tintin had heard bits of Hitler's speeches over the radio. It was one thing to listen to the man speak, and another to know that a country full of people had swallowed his words. But it did not make the scene any less unreal, there in the public library of Genk, watching apparently sane and normal men gather armfuls of Jewish-authored books and dump them on the floor. Until they no longer resembled books, but rather tinder.

Tintin stood up. A surge of heat took hold of him, and he moved more quickly than he could think. His hands landed on the nearest object he could lift, a full-size bust of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, one he had so often traced with his fingers whenever he passed by. Tintin hurled it over the balcony with all his strength.

The cold stone head left his hands. The air froze around him, stuck like a pin in his throat. He had meant to say something, anything at all, to let the Germans know their desecration of the library had not gone unwitnessed. But the sound of stone cracking stone shattered the quiet, and broke his will.

Shouts echoed up the hollow chamber. _"Wer da?"_

One older voice tried in Dutch, _"Wie is daar?" Who is there?_

Tintin's feet had wrenched him backwards, away from the balcony. He stopped, unable to speak, unable to move any further.

Heavy boots slapped the floor. Voices scraped up the walls. The echoes of footsteps multiplied until Tintin felt certain that an entire army was pounding up the stairs towards him.

He turned and ran. Back out the way he'd come, the fire escape shuddering as he rattled back down, and leapt on top of the dumpster. Voices poured down from above, and from around the corner, as the library's front doors burst open.

He couldn't outrun them. His only other option lay under his feet.

The lid of the dumpster slammed shut over him. Tintin's lungs filled with the vapours of decaying paper and used tea leaves, buried up to his waist. He held his breath, hands braced against the metal walls. The name of God had never cut so sweet and sharp through his mind as it did then.

His heart beat so hard it hurt. _Please. Oh, God, please._

A long moment passed before he could make out anything over the rush of blood inside his head. But he heard the voices subside, the tempo falling, footsteps dropping off as they walked away.

Tintin sank down among the old newspapers and delivery receipts and check-out slips. He ducked his head against his shoulder, pulled in a breath that scoured his throat, releasing it in a sob. He wrapped his arms around his knees. He had no idea how long he stayed like that, unmoving but for the shake of his shoulders. He cried for the books piled on the floor. He cried for Mrs. Speleers' lamp with the blue ribbon.

At last, he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his uniform jacket, and pulled himself to his feet. He cracked the lid of the dumpster, to check that no one was nearby, before climbing out. His satchel lay where he'd dropped it before. He shrugged it back over his shoulders.

He wanted to run. But he didn't dare. He slipped ghost-like through the streets of Genk, eyes dry yet burning, open but unseeing, and walked all the way back to Neel.

 

Sibyla and Alice were on the front porch when he returned, quietly arranging their pebble collection, as they always did whenever the tension inside the house grew too thick to bear. At once Tintin wanted to sink down on the porch beside them, and do nothing but make endless rings of pebbles with his little sisters.

As soon as she heard him on the drive, Sibbie sprang upright. She tumbled down the front steps in a flurry of petticoat skirts and stocking feet.

"Tintin, Tintin." She crashed into him, and tugged on his jacket with all her four-year-old strength, to pull him up onto the porch. "Maman! Tintin's back!"

The front door opened, and his mother burst through. She took in his appearance with wide, shining eyes, then pulled him into her arms.

"Oh. Oh, _mon ange,"_ she breathed, voice feather-light and tenuous. "You're covered in dust. What on earth were you doing?" She pulled back, brushing off his shoulders, and went on before he could answer. "Mrs. Coppens came to tell us that they've taken Genk. She said Mr. Coppens took you halfway there, but you didn't come back with him, and I've been-" she broke off, unable to finish.

"I'm sorry, Maman," said Tintin hoarsely. He looked up, into her eyes. "I had to see for myself. I had to."

She shook her head at him. "I shouldn't have let you go." Her mouth pinched tight. "You're not going back there again. I don't want you leaving the village, until all this is over."

 _When will that be?_ Before Tintin could say anything, Mel popped out from behind Joi's skirts. She towed along a bleary-eyed Ciel by the hand, having just woken up from his morning nap. Corben toddled after, not far behind. Joi scooped him up into her arms, to hug him close.

Mel's eyes fixed on Tintin, bright and intense. "Did you see the Germans? Were they shooting people?"

"Emmeline," Joi scolded, sharp at the edges but weak underneath. "What kind of horrible talk is that?"

Tintin dropped into a crouch, to level his eyes with Mel's. "They weren't shooting anyone," he told her. "There weren't any other soldiers there to shoot. They've taken over the city."

His sisters considered this, silent. The gravity was lost on Ciel, who wandered over to look at the pebbles. Sibbie had to stop him from putting one in his mouth.

Alice came up beside Tintin. She tugged at his wrist until he offered his palm. Without a word, she pressed a stone into it, a translucent blue, the most treasured of her collection. Tintin managed a smile in thanks, closing his fingers around it.

"Are the Germans going to come take over our house, too?" Mel asked, knitting her fine, dark brow.

"No, _ma petite."_ Tintin brushed a curl from her cheek. "They might come to Neel, but not here. Don't worry."

Mel squared her shoulders. "If they come, we'll give them tea and biscuits so they'll be nice and they won't hurt us."

Tintin heard a choked breath from his mother, a sob muffled into Corben's curls.

He fashioned his voice out of stronger material than he knew he truly had. "They're not going to come here. We're safe." He swallowed, and added, "It's going to be all right. Our soldiers are still fighting. We have to pray for their victory, together."

"And Papa," Sibbie put in. "We'll pray for Papa."

"Yes." Tintin smiled at her. "We'll be all right," he said with a nod, as he stood back up. He rested a hand on his mother's shoulder. She had been staring miles away, face stretched with worry. She turned glassy eyes to Tintin.

"We'll be all right," he gave her his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last I plan to post of these, but I'm far from finished with Tintin and his origins. I don't want to speak with too much certainty yet, but I have a full-fledged multi-chapter story in the works, one that will offer an explanation of how Tintin goes from village life in rural occupied Belgium, to becoming a reporter. With plenty of mystery, secrets, underground movements and daring feats of bravery thrown in.
> 
> Until then, I really hope you enjoyed these little one-shots as much as I enjoyed writing them. If so, please let me know in a comment or by hitting kudos! I'd be thrilled to hear any thoughts or criticisms you may have. But above all, thank you for reading, and I hope to see you around!


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